


You Will Meet a Tall Drunk Stranger

by Rascally_Winchesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Awkward Flirting, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M, My First Fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 20:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3741919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rascally_Winchesters/pseuds/Rascally_Winchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are only two possible explanations as to why somebody is pounding violently on the door at 2:43 in the morning: either Gabriel needs help burying a body or the landlord finally figured out Castiel secretly keeps a cat in his apartment.</p><p>Either or, their timing is, quite frankly, rude.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Will Meet a Tall Drunk Stranger

There are only two possible explanations as to why somebody is pounding violently on the door at 2:43 in the morning: either Gabriel needs help burying a body or the landlord finally figured out Castiel secretly keeps a cat in his apartment.

Either or, their timing is, quite frankly, rude.

Castiel jerks the comforter off himself and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, scrubbing his face with his hands and jamming his feet into the pair of worn slippers he keeps arranged neatly, reliably, side by side on the floor in the precise location his feet always hit the ground when he wakes up in the morning. He gets up, wobbling with the adrenaline of jolting awake from a deep sleep, and yanks his blue robe off the hook hanging on the back of his bedroom door. He slips it on and hastily ties the belt around his hips, flipping on lights as he scrambles toward the racket. Mind racing, his brain kicks into overdrive, thinking of the endless array of troubles his brother could’ve gotten into. Or the frightening possibility he could be slapped with an eviction notice over one harmless, measly, 9 pound cat with excellent litter box manners and a slight catnip dependency.

When he gets close enough to the door another thunderous round of wood-rattling knocking starts again, broken up by something that sounds suspiciously like… Singing.

Castiel screws one eye shut and peeks out the tiny bronze rimmed peephole. He is greeted with an eye full of a man who is decidedly not Gabriel and/or his angry landlord.

There are a few more open palm thwacks on the door, jarring it on its hinges, followed by a very crude and very slurred rendition of the chorus to _‘Walking on Sunshine.’_

“Charlie!” He barks when he’s done, jimmying the locked door handle, “I know you know the words, Charlie! Open the door!”

Castiel looks back through the peephole, the man on the other side warped like a funhouse mirror by the tiny bubble of glass. He’s grinning from one ear to the other, swaying back and forth on his feet like he is about to tip over.

He looks positively wasted.

Wrapping himself tighter in his robe, Castiel speaks as clearly and as slowly as he can, enunciating every word while keeping his eye fixed on the stranger. “This isn’t Charlie. You have the wrong apartment.” The man on the other side of the door gasps and looks down the halls from left to right, searching for the source of the voice. “It’s very early in the morning and you have to leave now.”

He presses himself flat against the door. “Charlie?” He whispers so loudly Castiel can hear him through the wood. “Charlie, is that you?”

Castiel rolls his eyes and wonders silently what he could’ve possibly done in a past life to deserve this. He unlocks the main door and deadbolt, keeping the chain latched, and cracks the door open a few inches.

The stranger tips forward a little bit and catches himself, whipping his head around in hopeful expectation. It takes him a few seconds longer than it would a sober person, but eventually his mind registers what’s going on. The smile drops completely off his face. “Hey, you’re not Charlie.”

“Thank you for noticing.” Castiel quips dryly. “You have the wrong apartment.”

As far as drunken strangers banging on doors at odd hours of the morning go, this one is probably as attractive as they come. In good shape, too, if the way his shoulders filling out his leather jacket had anything to say about it.

It does not change the fact that Castiel wants him gone.

The man leans forward and squints at the apartment number mounted on the door, focusing with almost comedic intensity. “Wait a second… This isn’t apartment 6d.” He says, ignoring Castiel’s comment.

“You’re right,” Castiel grinds out, like he’s talking to a small child. “This is apartment 6b. The one you’re looking for is two floors up.”

The man nods slowly for a short while and Castiel can practically hear the cogs turning in his brain. Then, he snaps his fingers and a grin splits his face in two. “I got it,” he says, beaming. “Charlie is up there.” He points to the ceiling for added emphasis.

Castiel wrestles with the smirk threatening to curl the up the corners of his lips. It may be almost 3am, but at least the man is a happy drunk. And hot. Castiel learned awhile ago to appreciate the small things. “Exactly. Can you make it up the stairs?”

The stranger scoffs loudly like he’s embarrassed Castiel would even say something like that. “Of course I can make it up the stairs.” He flaps his arm dismissively like a wet noodle. He looks up at the ceiling again, determined. “I’m gonna go find Charlie now.”

“Alright,” Castiel says, unable to keep his mouth from quirking. Intoxicated people are universally amusing, even when they are keeping you from sleep. “I wish you luck.”

The man gives him a mock salute and turns ungracefully on the heels of his heavy leather boots. Castiel watches him lumber away, skirting the wall and using it for support.

He watches him all the way until he gets to the stairs and climes slowly out of sight, uncoordinated as a newborn wildebeest, before he shuts the door and locks it back up with a smile still lingering on his face. Whoever Charlie is, they certainly have their hands full with that one.

Castiel flips the lights back off and makes his way to his bedroom. He shucks out of his robe and hangs it on the door again, then shuffles out of his slippers and arranges them neatly where they belong. His cat, Archimedes, glares at him through slitted yellow eyes from the foot of the bed.

He rubs the cat’s black velvet ears. “Sorry, Archie. It was just an inebriated man at the door.”

Archimedes curls himself into a tight ball, resting the tip of his tail over his nose. He makes a petulant noise and closes his eyes.

Castiel slips into bed and under his blankets, leering down at the little lump of dark fur. “Like you’re one to talk. We both know how you get with catnip.”

Archimedes soundly ignores him.

Once he settles down in his sheets comfortably, his drowsy imagination runs away with the tall, handsome stranger who drunkenly serenaded him with cliché 80’s pop music just minutes ago. It puts another sleepy smile on his face. He tucks the quirky little memory away, saving it for his blue days.

Not even ten minutes after he closes his eyes comes another knock on the door.

Castiel’s eyes pop open. He throws the covers off again, earning a rather scandalized cry from Archimedes, and bustles out his bedroom door, not bothering with his slippers or robe this time.

The knocking is more timid than before but no less persistent. When Castiel gets to the door he checks the peephole, but there is no one standing on the other side. He unlocks the top and bottom locks, leaving the chain latched just as he did before, and cracks it open. “Hello?”

The drunk man is sitting on the ground, head and back propped up against the wall right next to the door. His head rolls heavily on his shoulders, looking up at Castiel with a dreamy smile. “Charlie wasn’t home.”

Castiel rubs the stubble over his jaw and looks down at the man in his frayed leather jacket, sitting on his doorstep like an abandoned baby in a basket. To his immense irritation, a swell of fondness blooms in his chest.

Damn his moral compass for always pointing true at the most inconvenient times.

Castiel sighs and closes the door, only to unlatch the chain and open it up again in wide, begrudging invitation. “Fine. You can come in while I call you a cab.”

The drunk man scrambles to his feet, using the wall for leverage to pull himself up. “You sure?” He asks, eyeing Castiel like he’s waiting for him to slam the door in his face. “I don’t want to intru-” he hiccups and clears his throat, “intrude.”

Castiel tilts his head to the side and rests his temple against the doorframe. He gives the man in front of him a thorough once over. They’re so close he can see the freckles over the bridge of his nose and smell the twang of whisky on his breath. “That ship has already sailed, I think.”

The stranger’s face, already rosy from the alcohol, blushes deeper along the swell of his cheekbones. “Hey. You’re not wearing any pants.” He says, letting his eyes drop down to the front of Castiel’s stark white boxers.

He suddenly regrets not wearing his robe. “Just get in the apartment.” He shakes his head, bodily forcing the man across the threshold. He peeks back and forth down the hallway to make sure none of his neighbors saw anything.

As if anybody would actually be awake at such an ungodly hour.

Castiel closes the door and turns to find the man standing in his living room, holding up a fake pear from the decorative fruit bowl on the coffee table. His face scrunches up, perplexed. “You’re a weird guy, y'know that? Who keeps their fruit in the living room?” He sets the pear back down in the bowl. “Oh!” He says with a loud clap of his hands, like a thought is just occurring to him. “I’m Dean, by the way.” He hiccups again. “Nice to meet'cha.”

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel says patiently, padding toward his bedroom to get his cell and bathrobe. “I’m just going to grab my phone and then I’ll call you a cab. Does that sound okay?”

“Wait!” Dean cries, almost tripping over the leg of the coffee table to get to Castiel. He stumbles until he’s in front of him, swaying on the balls of his feet like he could just blow away if a powerful enough blast from the air conditioner happened to catch him.

Dean reaches forward and grabs Castiel’s face firmly between his hands, squishing his cheeks together so his lips part involuntarily like a fish. Dean leans forward until their foreheads are almost touching, his glassy green eyes blown wide open in drunken sincerity. He fixes Castiel with a look that holds the entire weight of the world. “You’re awesome,” he says sternly, blowing hot alcohol breath in his face.

Dean lifts his eyebrows to make sure Castiel understands just how important what he said is. Then he pats Castiel on the cheek a few times fondly and rustles the hair on top of his head so it stands up straight. He blunders over to the couch without another word, flopping face down onto one of Castiel’s expensive embroidered throw pillows.

Castiel stands there for a moment, dazed. This is definitely the weirdest night of his life. And that’s saying something, considering he grew up with Gabriel as a brother.

When he finds his feet again, Castiel retrieves his cell phone and slips his arms through the sleeves of his robe. He leaves the belt undone; no use in trying to preserve the illusion of modesty now. He looks up the contact information for a cab service and then dials the number on his way back to the living room. Archimedes contorts his spine into an acute arch and stretches his back legs, then jumps from his spot at the foot of the bed and stalks silently behind him.

He gets to the living room by the third ring. Dean is snoring peacefully away on the couch.

Castiel rubs his tired eyes and terminates the phone call before anybody even answers. “Dean.” He says firmly, tucking the phone in his robe pocket. He strides over to the couch and stares down at his unconscious house guest. He has his cheek resting on the throw pillow, hugging it fiercely like it might try to run away from him. His snores tumble from his parted lips into the soft fabric, loud and deep and very much asleep.

“Dean.” Castiel hisses again, gripping the ball of his shoulder. “Dean, wake up. We have to get you home.”

He gives him a firm shake. Dean groans groggily into the pillow he’s got in a death grip, curling his body closer to the back of the couch. “Get outta here, Sammy.” He whines, throwing his arm up to cover his face. He promptly goes back to snoring.

Castiel clicks his teeth together and tilts his head back, eyes searching the ceiling like it holds the answers. He isn’t a praying man - he hasn’t been for a long time - but sometimes he can’t help but think there is someone or something out there screwing with him.

He makes the decision to let Dean stay. It’s only for the night; he’ll probably be gone before Castiel even wakes up. Besides, it’s not like he owns anything that valuable worth stealing, save for a couple of handblown decorative vases he won in an online auction. But somehow Dean doesn’t strike him as the type to be well versed in antique French glassware.

Castiel makes himself busy by moving down to Dean’s feet and unlacing his clunky work boots. He wrenches them off one by one and lines them up neatly on the floor like he would his own shoes, then makes his way around the couch to Dean’s upper half and slips the phone out of his pocket. He sets in on the coffee table where he’ll be able to see it first thing in the morning.

Castiel turns back to Dean and his gaze lingers for a selfish moment, smiling faintly at his beautiful face, slack and peaceful with sleep. There’s already a dribble of saliva seeping into the fabric of his pillow.

With a great deal of manhandling and absolutely zero assistance from Dean, Castiel manages to wrestle his leather jacket off of him. He folds it neatly and places it next to his work boots, then goes about the physically strenuous task of arranging Dean on his side so his back is to the couch, just in case he throws up in his sleep.

Some people are just too attractive to let choke on their own vomit.

In the hopeful event that Dean actually becomes conscious enough to control where he pukes, Castiel runs to the kitchen and grabs his biggest soup pot to use as a makeshift barf bucket. Not the most appealing piece of cookware to empty your stomach contents into, but it will work in a pinch. He also fills a glass with water and shakes a few Advil into the palm of his hand, just in case Dean is the type to get hangovers.

Castiel goes back to the living room and sets the pills and glass of water on a ceramic coaster next to Dean’s cell phone. He puts the soup pot right by his head to reduce the chance of vomit getting on the couch or carpet.

Lastly, Castiel retrieves an ancient quilt his Grandmother made before he was even born from the linen closet and drapes it over Dean. Archimedes, who has been watching the whole time with glowing slivered eyes from the corner, trots over to the couch and leaps up onto the cushion by Dean’s feet. He paces the length of the arm rest a few times and settles down, a faint purr humming in his chest.

Castiel scratches the cat under his chin. “What’s gotten into you? You normally loath strangers coming over.” He muses.

Archie kneads his claws into the fabric of the couch, dropping the pitch of his purr into a content rumble.

For a few moments Castiel listens to the pleasantly intertwined harmony of drunk snoring and purring, letting the noises melt their way into the floorboards and walls, filling the farthest nooks and crannies of his apartment with a quiet - but very much alive - warmth. He finds it sort of funny, how one ornery ex-ally cat and an unconscious stranger managed to do that without even trying.

Castiel chooses that moment to retreat back to his room, leaving Dean and Archimedes to fill his home with the sound of life.

He keeps the door cracked, letting the soothing ebb and flow of even breathing sing him to sleep.

 

~~~

 

The next time Castiel’s eyes open is around 8:30 to the sound of something rather _human sized_ crashing to the hardwood floor.

He jumps out of bed as if on springs, snatching his robe and pulling it on as he hustles to find the source of the commotion. He is desperately hoping not to catch Dean in the middle of stealing his good silverware.

Instead, what he finds is a very disheveled Dean hopping slowly but determinedly toward the door, mercilessly forcing his foot into his unlaced work boot. He has his leather jacket tucked under his left arm and an imprint of the embroidered pillow still across his cheek.

Castiel clears his throat from where he’s standing in the mouth of the hallway. Dean visibly winces and stands up hastily. His foot is only half way in his shoe.

“Shit. Uh-” his hand flies up to the back of his neck, glancing around the room in embarrassment. The shells of his ears turn a pleasant shade of pink.

Castiel takes a moment to examine the room. The glass of water is still full and untouched on its coaster but the two Advil are gone. The pot on the ground hasn’t been disturbed and the quilt is even folded crisply over the back of the couch.

Everything looks just as he left it.

“Did you and I, uh, y'know… Last night?” He asks, giving the gap in Castiel’s robe an extraordinarily unsubtle once over.

Castiel tilts his head to the side and opens his mouth to respond but Dean silences him by holding up his hand. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.” He yanks his arms through the sleeves of his jacket. “I’m just going to get outta here before this gets any weirder. Sorry for…” He gestures feebly around the room and then turns to scuttle out of the apartment.

“Dean, wait!” Castiel calls before he can even turn the doorknob.

Dean visibly sags, like a news paper left out in the rain. He turns back to Castiel with his face pinched in uncomfortable shame. “Look, buddy, I’m sure you’re a nice guy and all, but whatever this is-” he motions to the space between them, “it’s not going to work. I don’t even remember how I got here.”

“We didn’t have sex.” Castiel says bluntly.

Dean blinks once, twice, three times. “You wanna run that by me again, chief?”

Castiel folds his arms over his chest and steps out from the hallway until he’s standing toe to toe with Dean. He seems taller now that he’s not slumped over with a dangerously high blood alcohol content. “We didn’t sleep together.” He says evenly, leveling Dean with a pointed look. After the lengths he went to last night to make sure Dean was safe and comfortable he’s not going to let him leave thinking Castiel took advantage of him. “You came knocking on my door last night and when I let you in to call you a cab you passed out on my couch. The closest we came to intimacy was me slipping your phone out of your pocket so you wouldn’t break it in your sleep.”

Dean rubs his rough fingers over his eyelids, puffy and bruised looking from lack of sleep. “That still doesn’t explain how the hell I got here.”

Castiel huffs, trying to keep a lid on his temper. “You knocked on my door by mistake. You were very determined to find somebody by the name of Charlie. Then when they weren’t home you came back here, sat in my doorway until I let you in, and then proceeded to fall asleep on my couch. There’s not much more to it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel sees Archimedes’ tail disappear into the kitchen.

Dean shifts from one foot to the other sheepishly. “Right. Charlie lets me stay at her place whenever I have too much to drink.” He wrings his hands, the blush on his cheeks making his freckles stand out. “I feel like a dick now.”

“Good,” Castiel says, turning away from him and stalking to the kitchen, “because that’s exactly what you’re being.”

He expects to hear Dean open the door and flee as soon as he turns his back. Castiel said what he needed to say to keep himself in good conscience, and now he’s giving Dean an easy out. No thank yous or goodbyes needed.

He would be lying if he said his heart doesn’t skip a beat when he hears booted footsteps follow him into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says with his hands in his pockets, leaning his hip against the dinner table. His eyes drop to the ground, engrossed in the grains of the hardwood floor. “What you did with the phone and the pain meds, it was really nice of you. And thanks for not, y'know…” His rough voice trails off. “I was pretty out of it. Not everyone would’ve done what you did in your situation.”

Castiel has to burry his head in the pantry to keep Dean from seeing his warm face. He grabs a can of soft cat food off the shelf and fiddles with the pull tab. “Do you want to stay for a cup of coffee?” He asks, before his courage fails him.

Dean looks off in the direction of the door and Castiel’s heart sinks. Of course, Dean probably has a million other things to do. It was a long shot just to ask in the first place.

But Dean surprises him, not for the first time this morning, by nodding his head thoughtfully. “I actually think I’m going to take you up on that offer. My car is at least three blocks away and I feel like I got hit by a train last night.”

Archimedes swats at the hem of Castiel’s robe until he sets the can of food on the ground. “The Advil should be taking effect shortly. I’ll make you some toast. It might help you feel better.”

Castiel pulls a loaf of bread out of the pantry and drops two pieces into the slots of the toaster. He puts a pot of coffee on while Dean scoots a kitchen chair across the floor, flips it backwards, and straddles it. He folds his arms across the back and rests his chin on them, watching Castiel pivot to and fro, grabbing things out of drawers and cupboards.

On the floor, Archimedes laps audibly at his breakfast.

Castiel wouldn’t exactly call the silence uncomfortable; it’s tense, perhaps a little awkward, but not all together unpleasant. When the toast pops Dean jumps, and Castiel turns his back on him so he can’t see his smile. He spreads butter and raw honey - the very expensive bee-friendly kind - over the the bread and asks Dean how he likes his coffee.

Dean answers with a very polite “Black is fine.” Castiel pours two piping hot cups, throws the toast on a saucer, and joins Dean at the table.

Now that they’re within close proximity he starts feeling the awkwardness. If he’s picking up on the uneasy air between them, Dean must positively be squirming in his seat.

“Is there something wrong?” He asks, the rim of his favorite ceramic mug pressed to his lips. He breaths in the dark, weighted scent of freshly brewed coffee and it makes his mouth water.

Dean shakes his head slowly, like he’s in disbelief. “This is just really weird.” He picks up a slice of toast and examines it. “I’m not used to sticking around for the morning after with the whole coffee and avoiding eye contact thing. Except we didn’t hook up, so this technically can’t be called the morning after, even if it is awkward as hell.” He bites the corner of his piece of toast and chews it thoughtfully. A very tiny strand of honey dribbles to his chin, fine as spider webbing. “It’s all backwards,”

Castiel sips his coffee. It scalds his tongue, but it gives him the backbone he needs to take the lead in the conversation. “Alright. Since we’re doing things backwards, maybe you should try getting to know me.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asks with a cheek full of bread.

Castiel catches a drip of coffee crawling down the side of his mug with his thumb. “That’s what you do before you go home with somebody, right? Chat them up, see if you’re compatible enough to fall into bed together. Well, we might not have had sex last night,” Castiel shrugs, “but you did drool all over my nice throw pillows. I think that earns me a bit of pleasant small talk out of you.”

Dean picks up his coffee cup and hides his sly grin by taking a sip. “I guess I should ask you your name, then. Y'know, since we’re doing this out of order.”

A giddy warmth blossoms in his chest. Dean is playing along, and Castiel couldn’t be more thrilled.

“I’m Castiel. It’s very nice to meet you, Dean. Well, sober, conscience you, that is.”

Dean runs the back of his hand over his mouth, clearing away the crumbs. The smile on his face is sweeter than any organic honey and warmer than the coffee.

After that, there is no more awkwardness between them.

Dean quickly shortens his name to 'Cas,’ _(I dunno, man. Castiel is way too serious to call a guy still in his jammies.)_ It’s a nickname he’s been called countless times before, but something about the way Dean says it makes it feel new and exciting.

They talk about their siblings and their jobs and music and anything else that happens to come up, plowing through topic after topic like old friends until Dean’s phone buzzes, interruptting them sometime around 11 o'clock. Apparently there’s an all hands on deck situation at the bar he works at, and he’s needed to help with the lunch crowd.

Castiel is reluctant to let him leave and Dean seems reluctant to go, but he leaves his number scrawled on a yellow sticky note with an open invitation to call him up for dinner and a movie, since doing everything out of order is seems to be working for them so far. Castiel agrees, promising that when they meet again he won’t be in his bathrobe and they’ll both have their teeth brushed.

The next time Dean comes over to stay the night, he doesn’t sleep on the couch.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my first ever fic! I know it's cheesy as all hell, but I wanted to get something out into the world.
> 
> Constructive criticism is always appreciated.
> 
> Title is shamelessly spoofed off of the British drama 'You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger' which has a radically different plot line than this story does.


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